To Tell or Not to Tell by Kate Helm

Like many Americans, I am not one but many. My roots have been planted and dug up many times over. My mother's family all came from Ireland and migrated here in the mid-1800s looking for opportunity and a fair shake. They started out in New York and then moved westward to settle in towns and cities around Iowa. I did not grow up there in the midwest, however, amongst cousins, aunts and uncles. In the 40s, 50s and 60s my grandfather worked in management for various companies like Goodyear Tires and Lockheed Martin that sent him and his family (my mother in tow) all over the country, from Iowa, to California and ultimately to Georgia where I was born many years later.

 

And how about my father's family? They came over in the wave of Eastern European immigration in the early part of the 20th century. My grandmother herself was an immigrant. Her family all settled in Buffalo and she would eventually raise her family there as well. That is my father's hometown, but thanks to the military, he left there at 18 and was eventually stationed in Georgia where he would later meet my mother.

 

So do I tell the stories of my Irish ancestors? How strong is one's connection if it's so many generations removed? How about the midwestern tales from my grandparents and great grandparents? My mother grew up hearing those but then moved herself as a young girl so they fail to conjure strong meaning and connection to me. 

 

I could try my hand at Polish storytelling, but I don't even know what that means. My father's family was not much for stories, preferring to keep their words short and to the point. There's not much room for fairy tales in immigrant households that were just struggling to survive. 

 

I've thought about stories from the American South. I was born and raised among southerners, but they were ultimately not my people. I grew up an outsider in my community - neither of my parents were southerners; I went to Catholic schools with lots of military kids, all transplants from around the country. Telling folktales from the deep south feels performative and appropriating. Ultimately, while I love all the stories, they simply aren't mine to tell.

 

So where does that leave me? What stories are mine to pass down? Which roots do I honor? Which norms do I follow? I don't have any answers but I know they're important questions to ask. If I've learned anything from these few months of learning about storytelling, it's that we must choose stories that resonate and connect with something deep inside of us. Modern day Americans whose ancestors hail from all over are in a unique position to have loose connections to traditions from around the world, but is a loose connection enough? What more do we need to do to ensure that the stories we tell are true, authentic, and meaningful? Thinking about these questions reminds me that storytelling is not simply a privilege, but also a responsibility. A story is not just entertainment, but also a gift we give to our community and our children. I never want to be someone who takes that lightly.